Faceless Farm

Story of a woman, who at 50, finds herself locked in a world of fantasy.

Another evening of endless clicking. It was a wonder that she didn't have RSI in her right index finger.  Her brain was certainly beginning to feel mummified - stagnent - useless.

As she climbed the stairs to bed she promised herself (again)  that tomorrow, she would do something other than sit in front of facebook and her make-believe world of farms and zoos. But what. But what. She drifted off to sleep pondering her options.

Her world was jolted awake by a loud mooing of cows and a rooster loudly crowing his dominence over the world.  How did she fall asleep under an almond tree, with the sun beating down on grapes in the field? Were the grapes ready to harvest, did the cow need milking, had the chickens laid mystery eggs?  Is this reality? Had she put her head down on a pillow? Hay bale?

Everything looked 'eerily familiar, and yet, was it? She knew, as she crossed the field of grapes,  that if she climbed the fence she would be in a school yard. But where are the children? "Where do the chil-dren playayy" went through her mind as she watched a cat sun it's self on a crate of tea that stood by the general store. She strolled in front of the store (which seemed to be closed) toward the library. Across the perfectly even, lush green grass she saw the farm house.  Why would it look so familiar when she couldn't think who lived there?

The air was full of farm animal sounds yet the corresponding odours seemed to be missing.  " With a moo  moo here and a moo moo there - here a moo, there a moo..." Hadn't that been her and Donald's favourite song when they were children playing on old Mr Mac's tractor?

She sauntered over toward the farm shed that had doors open in a welcoming gesture.  Passing the white farm house she paused  to wander about who lived behind it's perfectly painted walls.

The End

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